He was a mistake, outside to in. Prematurely pushed into streets, he found sordid, yet beautiful, company. Dropped acid in rainbow light. Hung under ghetto neon-sway. Spun in dervish dancing. Silent in awe hope, seeing ghosts on friendly ghetto streets. Enraptured in mystery of sacred geometry honeycombs/Stars of David. Back in the recesses in black and white film, muted from pushing limits on the edges of extremes. Going towards enlightenment always seeking, pulsing the jazz ride rhythms and flow.
14 June, 1983- They threw kan, to the Book of Changes, for direction:
“Crossing The River”
15 June, 1983- CAPE COD, MASSACHUSETTS
9:00 pm-ish. The two arrived at the Cape, by the Charity of the Road, without compass. Trying to find the Grateful Dead concert, in Provincetown, MA, but were stuck in Portsmouth on The Bay (wherever that was?) Eyes lost, blurred, directed by Gods’ breath-winds having thrown as blind faith, to the wind. Welcomed betwixt sea salt air, mournful cawing, and stinging sands.
Wounded veterans, trudging eons, as stars became altered and displaced, on
on and on.
Curses at birth reverberated in his pained Virgo soul, from his childhood mothers’ wounding. Multigenerational poison pulsed in his unwilling veins.
He had been hung in airless altitudes, without compassion or mercy, in another miserable life.
He dropped tears of despair on hopelessly repeating karmic squares. Obsidian pavement in midnight rain reflected bleak blackness, as he walked along, lost, confused.
He and his absurdly optimistic friend puffed on verdurous Rastafarian green.
So, they ascended.
Pulled anaranjado sun from the bottom of the prehensile ocean.
Surreal Native Americans spirits, in a furtive bliss, danced ferociously in future and past gray mist clouds. Tom toms pounding mesmerized , war whoops in fury and love, encapsulated in timeless sapient winds, gave hope.
But their bellies grumbled amid bliss. Food not easily procured, but clams on the beach, for free. Free ice water at Ye Olde Oysterhouse, where colonial soldiers had sat “in the 1770′s,” while local bluebloods cast disdaining glances and lifted gold-frothed draughts of beer, in 1983.
On sides of the weather-beaten road, Revolutionary tombstones jutted in spurts. Some stones pushed up uneasily in crooked curious mounds of earth, in uneven grass. The stones mutely weathered in calligraphy from old Hollywood ghost tales, bending clock time to antiquity. Some stones dated before the act of the Revolution ever became forged.
Their brimming imaginations now burst with creative fire. They were having fun. Fate thrown to the Gods, foolish youth play.
They sat in a circle of stones from an ancient fire, or just from campers, but it was more fun this way. Breathed in bliss and thick Rasta smoke.
Barely audible purple, misty waves surrounded their heart chakras. Lingering tales extolled by globe-bells deep in tombs laying on oceans floor. Lives opened from canoes, slave ships, war ships, boatloads of immigrants, that architected ever wider to more boisterous vibrations. Becoming the pounding urban sprawl of the American city of Boston, Massachusetts, USA.
On its safety valve of the Cape, prisms on sand shaped into mini geometrical architecture. Imperfect angles made by God, linear measurement being only in man, as God. Man with life breathed into them, created.
Sculptured into generations of minds, as the two lost, bedraggled seekers were seen through hand-blown Colonial glass panes, with Puritan disdain from the blue blood locals. Which seemed hilarious.
Tides orchestrated by the moon goddess. Waves in the azure ocean pulled sweet songs of Solomon, into the pairs’ opened consciousness, looking for universal direction.
In a moment whispered quiet to them, direction home,
as a simultaneous, benevolent driver of a gold chariot red Ferrari pulled over and beckoned them to come in. The driver, with a spoon around his neck, was coincidentally looking for weed. And in true Rasta spirit, delivered them to their doorstep, back in Boston, free of charge.